


Our castles that crumble

by greatdisorder



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Non-graphic death, Second person POV, grab the tissues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:53:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatdisorder/pseuds/greatdisorder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eight years old, Theodore Nott feels prepared for plenty of things. Losing his mother wasn't suppose to be one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our castles that crumble

You’re not suppose to be in the room; you’ve been told enough times that your mother needs her rest, needs the uninterrupted quiet to recover, but your governess takes pity--enough so that as long as you’re well behaved and don’t make too much noise, she won’t comment when you slip into the large bedroom and take a spot on the floor next to the side of the bed where your mother sleeps. You have more than enough ways to occupy yourself as the minutes stretch into hours, though, thumbing your way softly through the pages of history books that you don’t really understand, trying to remember things to tell her later when she wakes up and you can climb your way onto the bed in a bundle of barely contained excitement to talk about them like they're the latest news. 

You know they’re things she’s probably heard before, but it’s okay, she never seems to mind, and you think of the fond way she’ll smile at you when you recount the passages as best as you can, your determination to remember the things that matter doubling the longer you think about it. Some children would probably color their sick mum pictures, but you're not really like most children, you never have been, but she doesn't seem to mind that, either, and it’s all you can do to stay as quiet as a possible while your clumsy fingers pull apart the pages. She’s been in bed more and more over the last couple of months, social calls long ago written off as a thing of the past, but maybe that’s all right too. She’ll get better, she’s bound to, and in the meantime she'll be so proud of everything you're learning. She'll be happy, she'll be excited, she'll—

You raise your head at her sharp intake of air and the breaths that follow don’t sound right, like it’s hard for her to fill her lungs and your book slides off your lap as you stand, instantly forgotten as you worriedly watch her face. She was beautiful once, but her thick dark hair seems to lose more of its sheen by the day as her face keeps growing thinner, pinched now with…discomfort? With pain? You don’t know, but you take a hesitant step closer to her, your heart pounding in your chest and your stomach twisting unpleasantly as you frown. “Mother?” Your voice is small, laced with your nervousness, and if she hears it she doesn’t respond in any way that shows it. Something’s wrong, she can’t breathe and you should call for help, you _need_ to call for help, but you feel rooted to the spot, helpless as your brain fails to come up with the right course of action. 

“Mum—“ You start, your voice breaking under your growing anxiety, but after one more constricted breath, she falls still under the duvet. You’re scared, you’re _terrified_ and your body almost feels too heavy to control as you finally reach for her, curling your small, shaking fingers around a few of her own. “Mum—Mum, wake up, you. You—“ Her hand is still as warm as it always is and she still looks like she’s sleeping, like she’s okay, except the blankets aren’t moving with her soft exhales, except she’s not moving at all and she's not making any noise, and, and, and—

“Wake up!” You don’t know how many times you’ve said it and you don’t realize you’re shouting until someone is trying to grab a hold of you, trying to pull you away from her, trying to make you stop shaking her arm desperately, pleadingly. Your vision is blurring with unshed tears--or, maybe, just fresh ones, because your face feels wet and your own breath is shuddering, hiccuping, _broken_ as you hear your father snarling _I told you to keep him out of here--_ but it's distant and out of touch, a world away, and you’re still yelling for her, trying to get back to her because maybe if you do, maybe if they can get help, maybe she can still _wake up_ and things will be all right again.

The arms around you are too strong, though, and you’re still too small, too confused, too afraid to do anything but slump into them with your eyes squeezed tightly shut as your governess pulls you out of the room, whispering things into your hair that you’re not listening to, that you can’t make sense of. “My mother,” you start with your voice twisted up tight with too much emotion for a child to know how to handle, unable to continue as you bury your face into the crook of her neck and your governess only holds you tighter, petting a tender hand over your quaking back and whispers _I know, sweetheart. I know._


End file.
